Fallout 3: The Winds of History
by TheFirstElf
Summary: Grappling with the reality of changing Capital Wasteland, the Lone Wanderer meets a mysterious stranger from far away and begins an epic journey west in search of his place in the new irradiated United States, shaping the history of the Midwest in his wake. Part 1 of a 2 part series.
1. Chapter 1 - Endings and New Beginnings

Sunlight glistened on the tiles of the Jefferson Memorial. A new dawn rose from above the water to the east as the Lone Wanderer gazed over his handiwork. 5 years had passed since he had purified the waters of the Potomac and already the fruits of his labor were beginning to show: A trading post had been set up on the riverbank, not a ramshackle affair made of sheets of metal, but of stone, actual stone. Even months later, the Wanderer could still not believe it: the first stone buildings in D.C. in over two centuries. Unthinkable.

He made a mental note to thank Scribe Yearling at the Arlington Library for that. After years of collecting Pre-War Books for her, a discovery of something so simple and yet so groundbreaking came out of her research: Cement. Out of all places, in a book on Ancient Roman history. The knowledge gained from it allowed the inhabitants of the Wasteland to make cement out of broken up rubble.

Looking towards the ruins of D.C., he chuckled and said to himself in a coarse voice: "Well, we have plenty of that."

Even D.C. looked different. Slowly but surely, the effort to clear the Supermutants out of D.C. was joined with the requirement for new rubble. This was, of course, the Lyon's Pride pet project, war and peace joined together. The Supermutants were driven back west to Vault 87 to nurse their wounds, where, rumor had it, "The Lone Wanderer slaughtered them all, 500 of them, with a switchblade."

The rumors were greatly exaggerated.

The Supermutants had left the ruins of D.C. just shy of one hundred strong. A force that strong headed west would have caused death and destruction to any and all settlements in their path, and the Wanderer would never have allowed that. So he followed them, sticking to the shadows, picking off stragglers with his Infiltrator silenced-machine gun. He herded them away from settlements, like a dog with a herd of bloodthirsty mutated sheep. Away from Megaton, Big Town, even Paradise Falls. Not even slavers deserved what Supermutants did to their prey.

North and West he drove them. The Supermutants knew they were being followed, pushed west, but their limited understanding could not comprehend that they weren't just being pushed away from D.C., they were being pushed towards a determined location. By the time they had reached the mountains in the North West, there were only 58 mutants left, held together by the combined wills of their overlords as their companions suddenly fell in the silence of the night, their bodies left by the road side for the Yao Guai to eat.

Once there, the Wanderer began shooting at the weaker members of the horde from a distance with a basic Sniper rifle, opting for the loud noises the rifle would make in order to spook the already demoralized mutants, who in their panic, began running into a nearby cave. At that point all the Wanderer had to do was let the myriad of Deathclaws who inhabited their sanctuary in the mountain slaughter the mutants entirely.

Brutal, yet effective. Such was the Wanderer with his enemies. He couldn't help but smile at the memory, two enemies of the Capital Wasteland destroying each other in one fell swoop. For good measure, he had launched several Fat-Man bombs at the cave entrance, just to block the few stragglers in.

"Do you always stare or is today a special occasion?"

The voice broke him out of his reverie as he realized he had been staring at Sarah Lyons hauling a slab of stone out of the D.C. ruins as his thoughts had wandered, her power armor doing most of the work for her. She looked as if she was carrying a moderately heavy pack, not a 200 pound slab of cut stone.

"Sorry Sarah, my mind was somewhere else," He said, "How's the construction going?"

Sarah brushed a lock of blonde hair out of her face. "Slow," she admitted, "these stone buildings last longer but they also take longer to build, and new refugees keep coming out of the west to come partake in the 'Waters of Life.'"

She paused and looked over at the half-finished large shell of a building her fellow Pride members were working on. "Who woulda thought, huh? The 'Great and Valiant Lyon's Pride' now nothing more than glorified construction workers."

The Wanderer smiled, a rare sight in the Capital Wasteland, "We've been fighting for so long, it's hard to adapt to not having a gun on hand at all times. I can understand that."

Sarah paused, looking pensive. "No, not you. You're no city boy. You're a wild man, Wanderer. You'll always have a gun in your hand."

And with that, she picked up her stone slab and hauled it over to her brothers.

* * *

Far to the West, another wanderer looked over the ruins of the once powerful Enclave stronghold. Raven Rock, built over two centuries earlier to guard a few powerful men and women from nuclear hellfire. A bastion to both the ingenuity and the paranoia of civilization. He understood this.

He understood that at its core, civilization was nothing more of a parody of life, a cycle of death and destruction masquerading as liberty and security. He once thought the solution to such a conundrum was to rain flames from the sky and start anew, without civilization. Another man had stopped him then, had showed him a new way and a new path.

The Wanderer turned and walked away from the ruins, and walked towards the nearby bluffs overlooking the Capital Wasteland, his brown overcoat buttoned above the belt, a new acquisition which reminded him of his former duster, given to a friend. The significance of his overcoat was lost on him, and neither were the pins and stars adorning the lapels. He was wearing history. No, he *was* history.

Beneath him sprawled the Wasteland, the Potomac a snaky river in the distance, and the great city on its bank a testament to what was, what is, and what is to be.

The newcomer smiled, and made his way down the cliff. He was far from where he was born, in the deserts far to the south and west. Far from allegiances past, broken in blood and steel in the Mojave. Once a courier, now a wanderer, after many years Ulysses he had come home.

* * *

_You're a wild man, Wanderer. You'll always have a gun in your hand._

The Wanderer woke with a start, Sarah Lyons' words echoing through his head. He was in his Megaton home, scarcely furnished with bare essentials. He wasn't groggy, that was a habit he had eliminated from years of sleeping in the wilds. Grogginess dulled the senses, slowed reaction times and perceptions. Life or death outside the steel walls of Megaton. Rising from his bed, he moved quickly to the small bathroom, splashing water on his face. His brown chestnut hair combed out of his face at shoulder length and a 5 o'clock shadow adorned his head, while tired eyes and a thin mouth completed the picture.

He had to admit, he looked… tired. Scarcely thirty, the Wanderer's eyes seemed twice that age, having lived and seen enough for two lifetimes. He couldn't shake away Sarah's words. She was right, of course. She had a knack for that. He wasn't equipped to deal with peacetime, not anymore. Maybe once, over a decade ago, when he stepped out of Vault 101 for the first time, but now… he had seen too much. Lived through too much. Peace wasn't for men like him.

Doc. Church had called his condition PTSD. What that stood for, the Wanderer wasn't sure. He had been prescribed some chems for his mood, minor amounts of Ultrajet and Mentats taken once a day in the morning. The boxes and inhalers lay unused on his kitchen table, gathering dust. He knew he didn't need them, plus he didn't want to risk succumbing to addiction. Chems led to addiction, addiction led to weakness, weakness led to death.

Vigilance, always vigilance.

This was a lesson the Wanderer had learned the hard way.

In the wastes, in the land beyond the walls of Megaton, the Citadel, Rivet City, or even confines of the four walls of his house, distractions killed you. Deathclaws, Supermutants, Raiders, Talon Mercs, the Capital Wasteland demanded nothing but your absolute best at all times. There was another reason, a darker reason, for his avoidance of his medications.

Over 10 years ago, when the Wanderer left the vault that he had called home, he had trouble understanding the Wasteland. Megaton he understood, the first settlement he encountered. There were good people there. Decent people trying to get by. He even understood the nefarious Mr. Burke, someone evil and heartless for sure, but with clear motivations.

What changed him was his experience at the Super-Duper Mart and the Raiders.

He had gone on an assignment for Moira Brown. He needed the caps to make his way east, but he had also wanted to help the quirky woman. Like him, she just wanted to help the people of the Wasteland. His first encounter with the Raiders changed the Wanderer. Moira had warned him of their ferocity and he had heard the stories around the town, from Jericho, but he had dismissed them as tall tales. Nobody could be that depraved.

The first thing that struck him as he entered the Super-Duper Mart was the smell. He almost gagged at the thought of it. An unholy combination of mildew, stale air, unwashed bodies and rotting flesh. All these years later, he still couldn't shake the sight of the bodies hanging from the ceiling from chains and hooks. He had learned enough from his father to know that many of them hadn't yet died before being hoisted up in the Raiders' perverse crucifixes.

No Raider survived his righteous fury that day. He couldn't fathom the senselessness of the Raiders, the killing and torture of their fellow wastelanders for no reason save the sake of killing itself. After gathering the medical supplies and various quantities of Jet from the bodies of the slaughtered Raiders, he locked himself in a back room, protected by a Protrection he had activated. Surrounded by bottles of alcohol, syringes of Med-X and Jet inhalers, he consumed them all, trying to forget, to cope with his new reality. Hours, days, he still did not know how long he had spent in that dusty room, sitting on the floor with his head in hands. He consumed all of it, anything and everything to dull his senses.

When he emerged from the Super-Duper Mart he was a changed man. He knew he had a purpose, to protect the Wasteland and its inhabitants, whatever the cost. To himself or to his enemies. The Wasteland and its inhabitants demanded perfection from him, and he would give it to them or die trying.

Shaking out the bad memories, he moved towards his locker and donned his usual garb: a longcoat given to him by Vance, a friend, in Meresti Station. Brown, like much of the ground in the Wasteland, it allowed him to blend in with his environment. He then pulled Poplar's hood over his head. There was no particular strategic reason for this, other than that it fit his outfit, however the hood retained the clean, woodsy smell of the Oasis, and it reminded him of the saintly old Bloomseer.

Tapping Wadsworth affectionately on his hull, he said "I'm leaving for a bit, Wadsworth. Keep the house from burning down, ok?"

The Mister Handy butler's voice module replied glibly "I couldn't even if I tried, Master. Please stay safe, heaven forbid some other Wasteland-wandering Vault Dweller tried living here."

Shutting the door behind him, he made his way to the Megaton exit, where Lucas Simms awaited him. The Wanderer held Simms in high regard, and the feeling was mutual, ever since he had saved Simms' life all those years ago. He had abandoned his position as Sheriff (and the duster that came with it) a few years ago, citing a need to "give these old joints a break". He still looked imposing in his Merc Cruiser Outfit.

No words were said between the two, there was an implicit understanding between the two. Just like Simms could not imagine life in the Wastes outside Megaton, the Wanderer could not imagine life settled down in civilization. Simms, even after retirement, still felt he had an obligation to the inhabitants of Megaton. Similarly, the Wanderer had an obligation to the whole Wasteland, and part of that meant roaming the wastes, eliminating threats and becoming one with the land.

That was the Wanderer's secret. What made him so deadly to enemies of the waste, and what made him so much more effective than the Regulators. They inhabited the Capital Wasteland, but they did not respect it. They merely tried to live their lives in it, getting by day by day, receiving nothing from it. The Wanderer, instead, learned the land, he _lived_ the land. The Wasteland could spit out the unprepared, the disrespectful and the ignorant. That was why the Brotherhood of Steel, no matter how well intentioned, could not survive outside the confines of civilization. They were equipped to fight in open ground, in ruined roads of D.C., not the hilly outcrops of the western Wastelands. That was the Wanderer's domain.

Leaving Megaton behind him, he made his way North and West. He needed the solitude of those mountains, to allow him to collect his thoughts and understand what his role in the new Wasteland would be.

_You__'__re a wild man, Wanderer. You__'__ll always have a gun in your hand.__  
_

The words still echoed back and forth in his mind, and struck at some unknown nerve deep within him. They had been said without malice, and yet truer words had never been said: The Wanderer had no place in civilization, his senses too attuned to the wilderness. He passed Vault 101 to his left, the place that had once been his home, now lost to him forever. He trudged further north, quickly dispatching a Giant Ant which came too close. To his right, in the distance, he could make out the broken overpass where Arefu was located. He continued his path north, as the sun began to set. The Potomac now extended before him. This far north, the water was still irradiated, but the Waters of Life would make it soon, he was sure.

He sat down on the bank of the Potomac, pensive. In front of him, he could make out the Roosevelt Academy, once filled with Supermutants, now merely an empty shell of a once prestigious high school.

As he sat on the riverbank he observed the school. The Wastelanders had already begun prospecting the ruins, dragging out sheet metal, steel rods and other scrap for use in construction. He began to make out one such prospector exiting one of the buildings, his face masked by the shadow of the edifice, however he was covered in a familiar overcoat. One that he had seen before on another man, the man who killed his father.

_Autumn!_

The Wanderer's mind went red as he sprinted to the water's edge and began crossing the river. It wasn't possible. Autumn was dead, by his hand. He had avenged his father by shooting the cold Enclave general in the heart… repeatedly. It was simply not possible that Autumn was still alive. The colonel was dead, the Enclave was gone.

_How?_

The Wanderer made it to the other riverbank and crested the ridge leading down into the courtyard. In the moonlight, the stranger's features becoming clearer. It wasn't the long dead Colonel, and it wasn't his overcoat either. The stranger was imposing, tall and dark-skinned, his overcoat in a similar style to the incriminating garment but in a dark olive and featuring pre-war insignias on the lapels. The man's fair was shoulder-length, tied into many twisted dreadlocks framing his face.

The stranger was observing in the burnt tree in the middle of the courtyard, rubbing the bark, his back to the Wanderer.

"Do you know the history of this place, Wanderer of the Wasteland?" he said in a gravelly voice, his back still turned.

The Wanderer eased out of his hostility, his hand, however, still hovered at his side, where he had a 10mm Pistol, in addition to the silenced Infiltrator assault rifle strapped to the inside of his open duster.

"It was a school before the War.," the Wanderer replied warily. The stranger appeared to be alone and unarmed, surprising for someone this far west. "Supermutants used to hold this place. Gone now."

The stranger turned, revealing a grizzled, haggard face and a strong chin. He grinned, a slightly disconcerting sight.

"Aye, a school. The best and brightest sons and daughters of America came here. Studied. Lived. Laughed. America's history shaping its future. Gone now. Like them Supermutants of yours."

The stranger knelt as if to sit, but instead pulled a bundle of sticks, as well as a makeshift flint and tinder. In silence, he expertly lit the bundle, creating a small fire in the courtyard. He sat on the stone edge of the planter and gestured for the Wanderer to join him by the fire.

The Wanderer hesitated. This man seemed alien to him, alien to the Capital Wasteland, and yet at the same time, his gut feeling told him there was no danger. Not now at least. He knelt by the fire, warming him self as the night sky began to raise a chill. Mist rose from the Potomac, hugging the ridge surrounding the academy.

"I've heard stories about you, Wanderer. The stories spread, always changing, never the same. The Lone Wanderer. Kid from Vault 101. All over the North-East. Pitt, Maryland. They heard your name even up in the Commonwealth. You're changing the history of this place." he began, looking intently at the Wanderer, in particular at his Pip-Boy for some reason.

The Wanderer shrugged, "I've been around. Knew there were stories about me around. Not all true." He met the stranger's eyes, "You've heard a lot about me, but I can't say the same about you."

The stranger laughed then, something perhaps even more disconcerting than his smile, revealing perhaps a slight madness in him.

"I'm just a traveller, a wanderer like yourself, searching for my home. Was a courier once. Back West. Things happened. People like yourself change history with every step you take, history changed me. A sign. Just like this meeting tonight is a sign."

The Wanderer was not quite sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead opting to gaze into the dancing flames. They sat in silence for a while, until the Wanderer, compelled by curiosity, asked:

"A sign of what exactly?"

Another grin.

"Who knows? Civilization maybe. Change. Endings and New Beginnings."

"If it's civilization you're looking for, you're in the wrong place. Nothing but ruins and Deathclaws out here. You need to look for D.C. to find that."

"Aye, maybe. But that's not what I came looking for. Home is where the heart is, and my heart is set on finding my home. What are you looking for, Drifter of the Wastes?"

"Who says I'm looking for something?"

Another laugh.

"The fact that you're still wandering these wastes alone, trying to change history once again."

"I do it because it is necessary."

"Is it though? History is pushing you further and further away from civilization. Who needs your help out here? People, they moving to D.C., to salvation and safety. Not you. You live with the Yao Guai, wild man."

"Who are you? You know much about the Capital Wasteland for a stranger."

The stranger looked apologetic, embarrassed by his own faux-pas.

"My apologies Wanderer, I am Ulysses, of the Twisted Hair tribe. I come from beyond the great storms of the midwest. For 3 years, I have been traveling East. Until now. I look for answers, and I will find them here."

He held out his hand in greeting, a formality of a former time.

"John." The Wanderer took the hand and clasped it.

"John, let me tell you about the Mojave."


	2. Chapter 2 - A Westbound Wind

The Wanderer made his way North-West, stopping only at Fort Constantine to pick up a cache of supplies. Extra munitions, stimpaks, a few stealth boys and a some extra melee weapons: two combat knives, the Stabhappy and Occam's Razor, which he had taken from the bodies of his enemies, a raider and the leader of the Talon Mercs. John didn't know what what munitions he would find on the way West, but he could not risk the chance of remaining unarmed. From what Ulysses had told him, the Western Path was treacherous, full of ruthless tribals, irradiated animals and biting winds.

The former courier had accompanied him North, wanting to visit Fort Constantine. "Where the Beast slept beneath the wastes" he had said. John still didn't understand what that meant, but had shrugged it off. Slipping the knives into his belt, he felt the familiar weight of the Infiltrator in his coat. It comforted him. After some thought, he also strapped the Victory Rifle, a powerful sniper rifle, to his back. It would become helpful in the plains of the Midwest.

Ulysses stood in silence, watching the gutted buildings. The wind kicked up, blowing his dreadlocks and overcoat to the left. An eastern wind, carrying the dust and granite particles of the Capital Wasteland.

"Even the wind pushes you west, Wanderer. A westbound wind to carry you to the Mojave. This is a sign." He said, placing his large hand on John's shoulder.

"Maybe, maybe it's just wind." John replied. Trying to decide what else to bring, he also began to pack food. Just like munitions, he brought enough food to get him to the Pitt. A two week journey. There he would restock with food and perhaps more munitions. From what Ulysses had told him, from Pitt he would have to proceed to Chicago via handcar as well, then the long journey west to Denver, Utah (by way of Zion) and finally the Mojave.

After some more thought, John packed more food.

_Done_. He thought, content with what he had brought. He spun around, taking in the Capital Wasteland. his duster hugging his knees.

"What will you do, Ulysses?" he asked the other man.

"My path is to the East, Wanderer. I am a courier, and my destination is America's capital." Ulysses replied.

"And what are you carrying?" John asked, feeling as if Ulysses's answer would be cryptic as usual.

"History, Wanderer. I carry History."

The Wanderer knew he would not see the strange man again. In a sign of respect for each other, the two men grasped each other's arm at the elbow, an ancient gesture.

"Stay safe Wanderer. The Mojave trembles at your coming."

"Ulysses, keep this place safe for me. Be well."

* * *

Sarah Lyons grated under her new duties in the construction of the new settlement on the banks of the Potomac. Already 20 large buildings had been built, capable of housing 5 to 7 families in them. She understood that the Brotherhood's Power Armor and architectural know-how was required to build the new buildings.

She was conflicted. Some days her anger at her new role got under her skin so much that she would the stone blocks she carried would begin to crack under her clenched fists. And yet grateful faces of the refugees of the Wasteland coming to create the new city seemed to make it all somehow worthwhile. Already the settlement (which the refugees had began to call "New Washington") had a flourishing trade relationship with Rivet City, exchanging the food brought in from prospectors and small farmers for metals and other pre-war objects such as plates and glassware. Vice-versa, New Washington could easily bottle the Waters of Life for export to other settlements in the Wasteland: Megaton, the Citadel, some even making their way to Little Lamplight and Girdershade.

And yet with every day that went by, more and more people came, from further and further away. Some even from the Republic of Dave, making the long journey south. Sarah Lyons knew that this would not, and could not last. For every building built, 10 more families appeared, hungry, tired and desperate, children and brahmins in tow, carrying assorted personal possessions.

Sarah knew she could not stop these people from coming, nor should she. This the Wanderer and his father's legacy, they would never allow it. They needed help, extra manpower. Manpower strengthened with Power Armor. But who? The Outcasts? Never, they had already expressed their disdain for what they were now calling "The Brotherhood of Public Works" and their projects. The Enclave was gone, Elder Lyons had ordered for their equipment to be brought to the Citadel, where it lay gathering dust.

There were two alternatives in her mind, both of which her father disapproved of: Allow the refugees to earn their keep by giving them training and help with the construction efforts, or perhaps, more drastically, induct some of the younger refugees into the Brotherhood of Steel as new initiates, allowing more knights and paladins to help in construction.

Her father, of course, had rejected both ideas. Wise beyond his years for sure, Elder Lyons could sometimes be as stubborn as a Brahmin with three heads. For someone who had abandoned the rigid orthodoxy of the Brotherhood of Steel in favor of a more humanitarian approach, he still clung to the precepts of the order, and the secrets they guarded with their lives.

Composing herself, she gathered the other members of the Pride: Vargas, Glade, Kodiak, Colvin, Dusk and Gallows. All had their ranks outside the Pride, however rank mattered little to them. They were a team, they worked together, each as integral to their system as the next. This made their losses that much more tragic. To be sure, any loss of a Brotherhood member was a tragedy in its own right, but the loss of a Pride member… it was like a limb being torn off. The last two Pride members to die were Initiates Jennings and Reddin, defending the GNR building from a Supermutant Behemoth. Vargas never forgave her for that, especially for Reddin. Her death was so preventable that Vargas still tensed up when her name came up.

Sarah suspected that he and Reddin had some form of romantic relationship outside of the Pride as well, but she kept her suspicions to herself. It was forbidden for Paladins to fraternize with Initiates, and Vargas was a friend. Also, she wouldn't muddy Reddin's memory like that. It wasn't her style

The Pride readied itself for another excursion into the ruins of D.C., looking for suitable concrete to haul out of the decayed city.

"C'mon Pride, let's clear some road!" she joked, as they made their way north, hugging the river, towards the Anchorage Memorial. The new plan was to clear as much of the road as possible between the Anchorage Memorial and the National Mall, gathering building materials and allowing travel to and from the Mall. It had been the Wanderer's plan, although he had told Sarah to take credit for it. A straight line from the river to the Mall, connecting the Anchorage Memorial to the Lincoln Memorial. "Memorial Way" he had called it. Sarah had to admit, it fit.

Shouldering her Gauss Rifle (a present from the Wanderer), she led the company further North. They passed Dukov's place on their right. Cherry from Rivet city had told her all about the perverted drunkard who lived there. The Wanderer had gotten out of there in exchange for some strange key, as she recounted it. Last year, the Pride had stopped for the night during one of their expeditions into the City. Dukov had charged them an exorbitant amount of caps for it, but it was shelter so the Sarah had bit her tongue. During the night, however, the russian had tried to "cop a feel" on Dusk while she slept. For his trouble, Dusk threw him into the Potomac.

Sarah still laughed at that memory. She wondered how Fantasia was doing as she passed. Dukov was scum, but Fantasia was a survivor. She would manage, Sarah was sure of it. To their left loomed the Anchorage Memorial. They had arrived. The sun had set, but with the Supermutants now gone, there was no real danger. Raiders and Talon Mercs knew better than to attack Brotherhood members, no matter how dark it was. Making a right, they proceeded up the steps into the city. The road ahead of them was blocked with debris, a roadblock of concrete, rebar and steel rods.

"Kodiak, place the charges." she said, scanning the area around them. One could never be too careful. Nothing, _all quiet_, she thought, relieved. Looking back at Kodiak placing satchel charges, she looked at D.C., eerily quiet at this hour. Content with his handiwork, the former Pitt slave gestured for the company to step back, as he made his way back towards the steps.

He detonated the charges, large enough to dislodge 200 years of debris, yet small enough not to damage the larger slabs of rock. A cloud of dust rose high in the air, blocking the view of the city. As they made their way towards the cloud, Sarah's eye caught a glimmer of moonlight reflected on steel through.

She tensed, preparing for a fight.

When the cloud finally cleared, 15 people stood on the other side of the debris, donning Power Armor painted black and red, moonlight reflecting off laser rifles pointed straight at them. Outcasts.

"At ease, paladins." came a voice from behind the Outcast contingent. A scribe stepped out from behind the human wall of flesh and power armor. She was short and lithe, donning the traditional garments of the scribes, died black and red like her armored counterparts.

"Specialist Olin, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Sarah said, wary of the laser rifles all pointed at her. The Pride was outnumbered and outgunned. She couldn't imagine Brotherhood fighting Brotherhood, no matter what their differences, but stranger things had happened among the ruins of D.C.

"Sarah Lyons, always a pleasure. We were on our way to the Citadel to speak with your father, when we heard your voice on the other side of that debris. Keeping well, I assume?"

Sarah grated her teeth. She knew she should be furious at Olin. For betraying her father, for helping steal technology, but she couldn't. The woman was just too… nice. A rarity amongst the Outcasts, Specialist Olin was soft-spoken, goodhearted to a fault, and a true visionary. She just chose the wrong side.

"As can be expected. Why visit the Citadel?" Sarah asked, "My father won't change his position. He and Casdin have argued over it a thousand times by now."

"And that's the problem, isn't it? Our leaders are too stubborn and proud to realize the opportunity we have here. Continue down this path and you and I both know we'll end up fighting over whatever technology is left in the ruins of D.C. Brother fighting brother. I don't want that, McGraw doesn't want that. So we're proposing a truce."

"A truce? Does Casdin know?"

"Casdin? The old coot's holed himself up in Fort Independence, berating every wastelander who walks by him. His power armor's just strong enough to contain his gigantic ego."

Sarah chuckled, Olin had a point.

"However, yes he does know. He hated the idea, but conceded that this is necessary. If we both want to survive, we need to learn to live with each other."

Sarah nodded. The reasoning was sound, and she had to admit, the schism was counterproductive at best, and downright foolish at worst. "What are the terms?" Sarah asked.

"Both Elder Lyons and Protector Casdin will step down from their positions and retire. Their replacements will govern the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel jointly under a new dual-mandate: To seek out, recover and study any and all advanced technology, and to use that technology for the benefit of the Brotherhood and the Capital Wasteland. The Outcasts would be in charge of seeking out and studying technology, which the Brotherhood would then use to benefit the wasteland."

Sarah scoffed, "My father will never retire, Olin. He's too stubborn for that. He'll keep that position until they lower him into his grave."

"And then neither will Casdin, and in a few years we'll all go into the grave together. Nobody wants that." Olin replied, "Look, I've been authorized to sweeten the deal. In exchange for the salvaged Enclave tech we know you're not using and in exchange for the exclusive right to prospect the D.C. ruins for technology, the Outcasts will provide 50 Paladins and 20 Initiates to help with any and all construction projects you may have."

The deal was too good to be true. Maybe this was the break she was looking for.

"Why help us Olin? We know how the Outcasts frown upon New Washington."

Olin hesitated, then explained: "It's your friend, the Wanderer. He's helped the Outcasts before, and he saved McGraw's and my life. This is what he would want. Casdin agrees, McGraw agrees, and I agree. Don't let your father's stubbornness stop this, Sarah Lyons."

Motioning her escort to follow her, the Outcast contingent turned and made their way North amongst the ruins of D.C. Sarah Lyons stood in silence for a minute, processing the information she had just received. After some deliberation, she moved forward to lift a large slab, her fellow pride members doing the same.

As they made their way back, Sarah paused and looked back at where Olin had spoken to her, and in looking, she could have sworn she saw a man watching her in the darkness of one of the buildings, his overcoat flapping in the wind.

* * *

The maw of the Train Tunnel expanded before him, ready to swallow him whole. John had paused at the entrance of the tunnel that would lead him to the Pitt, undecided whether to leave at nightfall or at dawn. Not that it mattered of course: day and night were abstract concepts in the long tunnel.

Setting up a small fireplace, he began to grill some Mole Rat steaks he had just recently cut from an unfortunate animal who had ventured too close. He needed his strength to operate the handcart, and the meat would certainly provide that. His equipment was all mostly packed in the handcart, only his knives and the 10mm pistol on his person.

Casting his gaze first east then south, the Wanderer smiled. He had cast the seeds. The bounty of Oasis would thrive, but slowly. As soon as the Waters of Life made their way far enough to the North, purifying the aquifer beneath Oasis, that would change. An explosion of green to cover the wasteland. Further south Paradise Falls and Evergreen Mills, empty for years, the slavers and raiders who lived there gone. Justice had been done upon them. Every threat to the wasteland had been strategically eliminated, and every boon had been nourished and cared for. Oasis was just one of them, the Brotherhood was another, and even more had fallen under the Wanderer's sway: Reilly's Rangers, Rivet City, Tenpenny Tower, Big Town, Little Lamplight. The Wasteland of the future would be shaped by these places.

He smiled wistfully. He had cast the seeds, but he knew he would not reap the benefits. It wasn't his place, that was Sarah Lyons' and the Brotherhood's place. Sarah was right, he *was* a wild man. He was bred for combat, for survival. The Wasteland had seen to that. The ennui of the quiet, civilized life wasn't for men like him. He had sent word with Ulysses that his things be given to Elder Lyons for distribution and study. Recovered Enclave tech, Power Armor, Combat Armor, assorted weaponry, even the Alien technology from Mothership Zeta. The combined know-how of Scribe Rothchild and Doctor Li could gain insight into how the Alien technology worked and make peace-time inventions to benefit everyone.

As he mused, he paused, tensing up.

Something in the air felt wrong.

He was being watched.

Vigilance.

He slowly turned back as if making his way to the hand cart, his eyes scanning the area. If he was being watched, the Wanderer knew it wasn't by human eyes. An armed human would have killed him by now if they meant him harm.

Deathclaw? No, too far North. One could have wandered out of the Old Olney, but that was highly unlikely.

Making his way to the handcart, he was undecided whether or not to arm himself. He might be wrong, and something sentient was secretly watching him. Grabbing a gun could mean a bullet in his spine, and yet all he had on his person were his two combat knives, stuck in his belt.

That's when he heard it. The scuffling. It came from the tunnel, the sound of more than one… something scuffling on all fours.

Trogs.

Six of them emerged from the tunnel. The small flame of his campfire illuminating their raw, red faces.

No time to grab a gun, John pulled both knives out, the knife in his left hand held sideways and up high for slashing, and the one his right held low and upright for stabbing and piercing.

The trogs scuttled towards the fire, as if mesmerized, then began leaping past it, hatred and an unmitigated hunger in their eyes.

Hunger for his flesh.

The first trog savage leapt for his head, John ducked under it, slicing open its stomach, then spun around a second one piercing its skull at the base. His knives painting a flurry of death as the trogs surrounded him, one falling with its throat slit, another clutching its knees as its tendons were severed. Kicking one in the face, the other confronted John, its elongated hands slashing at his face.

Dodge left. Dodge right. John ducked under the arm of the trog, cutting deep into its side, and then used the second knife to pierce its lung, spinning quickly to face the last trog, he moved into the deathly embrace of the trog, his knife moving into the roof of its open mouth, its jaw broken from the kick it had received. Extracting his knife, he moved towards the last trog, which was clutching its now useless leg, trying to uselessly to move and grab at the Wanderer's face.

John almost pitied it. It had been a person once. Every last shred of humanity was now gone, however, and it lived only to feed, to breed, and to hate. He could see in it his eyes, the fire of an unquenchable need. In many ways, he mused as he swiftly put the Trog out of its misery, they were like the Feral Ghouls who roamed the tunnels of D.C.

What troubled him though was that these Trogs had made the two week journey through the tunnel and had made it to the Capital Wasteland. Who knew how many had made it before he had arrived. Dozens? Hundreds? A few Trogs were not overly fearsome, but a swarm of them?

Perhaps he should turn back, warn the Brotherhood…

He dispelled the notion. It was no longer his fight. Also, he would do more good investigating the Pitt. Either Ashur was not holding up his end of the bargain, or something had happened. Something… not pleasant.

Feeling he would need it, John shouldered the Infiltrator Rifle and smothered the fire with a kick of dirt. He made his way to the handcart, pumping slowly to activate the mechanism. The cart rattled, and slowly made its way into the tunnel.

Darkness swallowed him.


	3. Chapter 3 - Promises Gone Awry

_Light!_

After almost two weeks in the tunnel, The Wanderer finally exited the tunnel to skies of swirling grey.

Pausing for a second, he let his eyes acclimate themselves to the light. He breathed in, the metallic smell of the Pitt carrying downwind to the tunnel.

As always, the tunnel could be a harrowing experience to those not used to darkness and cramped spaces. Not so the Wanderer, who was used to years of both growing up in the Vault.

John sighed. The Pitt was a dreary place, and yet it was a necessary stop on his journey, both as a place to resupply and also as part of a larger motive.

He had lost count of how many more Trogs he had found in the tunnel. At least twenty more, scurrying around in the darkness. They had been dispatched swiftly and silently, prevented from making their way south and west to the Capital Wasteland.

The Wanderer couldn't allow the Trogs to come through the tunnel. 5 of them could swarm a deathclaw and rip it to shreds. Their primal motivations and dense musculature made them some of the fiercest opponents he had ever faced. He had had this conversation with Ashur, the leader of the Pitt raiders, extracting from him a reluctant promise to keep the Trogs contained to the Steelyard until a cure could be found for them.

Obviously something had gone wrong. The Wanderer hadn't come to the Pitt in a long time, perhaps Ashur had gotten prideful, thought he could break his promise, or worse, send the Trogs to the D.C. Ruins and make them someone else's problem.

Or an even darker alternative: perhaps the Trogs had finally overwhelmed the inhabitants of the Pitt and were now multiplying more than could be held in the ruins of Pitt.

John steeled himself, whatever he would find, it would require his intervention before he continued west towards a place Ulysses called "Chicago". Not only did he need to intervene because it was part of his duty towards the Wasteland and its inhabitants, but also because the he was partly responsible for the balance of power in the Pitt. He had backed Ashur and his despicable methods because, long-term, his plan offered a future for the Pitt. The workers had no plan, it pained him to say. They would left the Pitt and spread across the plains like seeds in the wind, leaving only the Trogs in Pitt to multiply.

That could not happen.

He had kept the truth about the Trogs from the Wastelanders for fear of panic. Perhaps he had made a mistake in trusting Ashur. There was, of course, another deal he had made with the former Brotherhood Paladin, but that would have to wait.

First things first: He had to cross the bridge.

Easier said than done.

The bridge to the Pitt was the only way in and out of the Pitt unless swimming in the highly radioactive river beneath it, which was inadvisable unless you were a Ghoul, a Super Mutant or a Trog. Booby trapped, blockaded and guarded by raiders with sniper rifles, crossing the bridge into the Pitt was one of the most harrowing experiences the Wanderer had had to face coming to the raider city the first time.

Now he had to do it again.

Sighing, he made his way up the train track. He had to do what was necessary, although he hated dealing with Ashur. The man was stubborn but persuasive, but he also knew well enough to fear the Wanderer. John couldn't comprehend the motive for betrayal, if indeed it had happened.

Passing the overturned train cars, he hiked up the hill that would bring him in sight of the Pitt Bridge. He shouldered his sniper rifle, hoping he would not need it, but keeping it on hand in case. The Infiltrator he had brought with him had jammed halfway through the tunnel, and in the darkness he couldn't make out a way to fix it. He had reluctantly left it behind in the handcart.

As he crested the ridge, the sight he saw took him aback.

The bridge was destroyed, a huge chunk of the middle now jutting out of the river. The steel cables and pylons which held the structure up sagged as if at one point subjected to an immense heat. Perhaps a small nuclear blast. It was possible: each car used as a blockade had a small nuclear reactor once used for power. A single blast from a Fat Man launcher could have ignited them all, destroying the bridge.

The question remained: why would someone destroy the bridge, and what would prompt someone to use a Fat Man unless truly desperate.

Something was up, and he would find out what.

* * *

As he made his way down the hill towards the bridge, John studied his environment. The Pitt looked different since the last time he had come to the city, lifeless and dull. All those years ago, led by an ideologue, he had come in the night, which made the experience all the more harrowing, and yet the red glow of the giant furnace of the Pitt had been visible even on the other side of the river bank, an artificial sunset testament to the productivity of man, both the good and the bad.

That crimson glow was gone now, as was the smell: burning metal, sulphur and iron, all smells and fumes the wanderer associated with the Pitt, now replaced by the stale stench of decay. The Pitt had been abandoned, he surmised, he didn't need to investigate the city to know as much. The signs were all there. He knew also Ashur and the raiders would never have abandoned the furnace without a fight, much less stop it from functioning if they still had control of the city.

Could he be dead? If so, by what? Trogs? Doubtful; in spite of their viciousness, the Pitt raiders had been killing the Trogs for years. Plus, considering the damage to the bridge, the Pitt had been attacked by heavy weaponry, not feral humans. Something had destroyed the Pitt, something with serious firepower.

John was now at the bridge, his Pip-Boy alerting him to rads. For the first time, he could see the bridge empty of cars, blackened craters in their place, in some places even poking holes through the asphalt and revealing the toxic maelstrom of a river below. He marveled at it, something he couldn't have done before in the darkness while dodging bullets, it was a feat of engineering like no other, capable of enduring the test of time.

He took a pill of Rad-X and took began walking, the beeping of his Pip-Boy lowering to a small barely intelligible hum. The crack in the bridge awaited him, and an almost impossible divide between him and the Pitt. While not sizable, perhaps a few hundred feet at best, it was still enough to present a serious challenge to crossing. He certainly could not jump it, the distance too far and the risk too great.

Standing on the edge of the crack, the Wanderer pondered his situation. A makeshift bridge perhaps? With what? Material from the yard? That would take too long. Rope? From where? John shook his head, cursing his own luck. He needed to scavenge, perhaps something useful could be in the area. Looking pensive, he gazed at the mess of pylons, melted then hardened into a veritable birds nest of metal. It was almost beautiful, in a strange way.

An idea dawned on him, something so outlandish it might work. The idea came, ironically, from an issue of Grognak the Barbarian he had received from Amata nearly 20 years ago now…

_In this issue of Grognak the Barbarian! Grognak must cross the chasm of doom to face the evil sorcerer Malachek! Will our hero succeed?!__  
_

_Using only his sword and the enchanted rope given to him by his one true love, Grognak ties the rope his sword and throws it with all his might! __It sticks in the stone! Using the skills only a true barbarian can muster, Grognak crosses the tight rope he has just made and can now cross the chasm!_

_Malachek, I will destroy you!__" __he howls as he crosses, but what will happen when these two titans finally clash? Find out next time on GROGNAK THE BARBARIAN!_

It was just stupid enough that it might work.

Rushing back to the yard, John mustered together the ingredients he needed at the workbench and began working on a Railway Rifle, capable of firing long tough nails into almost anything. He knew first hand they could support the weight of at least one man, having pinned quite a few raiders to walls with one. As for the rope, he would need to make due with a steel pylon. Several were loose from the explosion. He recovered a non-essential one and proceeded to the crack again

He chuckled to himself at how utterly insane what he was about to do was. "You are one crazy sonofabitch John, you know that?"

Holding the railway rifle vertically to the ground, he fired twice, pinning one end of the pylon securely into the asphalt. Gathering the other end, he threaded a nail through the tough weave of steel wires and placed it into the rifle. In one swift movement he raised the rifle and fired. No hesitation. Hesitation got people killed, another wasteland lesson. The nail embedded itself into the asphalt on the fair end, the pylon becoming taut.

The Wanderer put the railway rifle in his overcoat. It could become useful later on.

Looking at the pylon stretching over the river, he couldn't help but hesitate and feel nervous. This would require patience and balance in order to avoid death. Not exactly an ideal scenario, however these were the cards he had been dealt.

Setting one foot on the pylon, he shifted his center of balance forward in order to stabilize himself, arms outstretched. Then another foot. Then another. The pylon was beginning to hurt his feet as he slowly took another step forward, his weight pushing against the steel cable. Cursing the whole situation, the Wanderer took two more steps further, bringing him to the center of the divide.

In that moment a gust of wind roared down the river valley, pushing him off balance. Waving his arms frantically, John tried to correct himself and restore his balance, but the damage had already been done and he was falling.

_SNAP!_

The pylon tightened further as the Wanderer's hand clasped around it, his body dangling over the river. Thanking his lucky stars (and some cybernetic implants which helped his reflexes), John had grabbed the pylon with his left hand as he was falling. His situation was still precarious however, and he raised his right hand to grasp the pylon and remove some of the pressure from his left arm. Slowly crossing his arms he continued his way along the pylon, the cable digging into his hands as well.

In hindsight, this was a terrible idea, he decided.

Finally making his way to the other side, he hoisted himself up, grabbing some steel rods jutting out of the asphalt and lifting himself onto the tarmac on the other side.

The Wanderer inspected his hands, a red welt crossing both of them. It hadn't broken the skin, however the welts were painful and he winced as he closed his hands. The pain would pass, however his combat effectiveness could be reduced for the time being.

Keeping vigilant, John made his way into the ruins of Pittsburgh, passing abandoned Pitt raider structures and old buildings. He crouched down, inspecting the empty buildings. Some were riddled with bullet holes. Mainly 10mm and .357 rounds, all embedded into concrete. The ground near the gate was sprinkled with bullet casings.

A fight had happened here.

And yet the bullets had fired inwards, as if the enemy was coming from the wrong side and not from the bridge. From what he could tell from the evidence, the Pitt raiders manning the gate had fired at an enemy coming from _behind _them. From within. Trogs? Perhaps. Further inspecting the abandoned structure, he tried to see if he could find any evidence of gunfire being shot at the gate. He couldn't find any, and there were no casings apart from around where the Pitt raiders congregated. The evidence for a Trog attack was becoming consistent.

Suddenly something caught his eye, blackened rings on the gate, as if something had burnt the sheet metal for a brief instant before dissipating. As he looked, he saw more and more of them. Perfectly round circles of burnt metal.

Trogs with energy weapons? No.

In the darkness around the gate, he continued his examination, finding more and more burn marks, and perhaps more conclusively, a small pile of ashes in a corner. The remains of an unfortunate raider.

Someone had attacked the Pitt.

The Enclave? Had they made it this far west? Doubtful, their operation was almost entirely destroyed at Abrams Air Force Base, and whichever members remained had fled in completely different directions.

The silence in the Pitt was haunting. He wasn't sure which had harrowed him more: this eery silence or the constant hammering of metal upon metal. John made his way further into the city. He stopped by a small raider shack, preparing to scavenge for bullets. Again empty. Gathering whichever munitions he needed, he scanned his surroundings. The city was completely dark, pitch black in some areas.

Feeling tense, he cocked his Infiltrator, the sound echoing throughout the dark alleys of the city.

He paused, dread setting in.

It was dark.

_Where were the floodlights?!_

An inhuman sound came from inside the city, a mixture between a cackle and a howl. Then another, soon an entire cacophony of whoops and jeers. Some far, some as close as a few streets away.

Cursing his stupidity, John crouched down and looked for a place to hide. The hooting of the Trogs was intelligible, however it didn't take an expert to guess at what they were chanting to each other.

Food.

* * *

"He's gone? When? How?" Elder Lyons nearly yelled at the unfortunate initiate.

The young woman reddened, her shoulders visibly tense in her recon suit. "I don't know Sir. We received reports from Megaton that the Wanderer gathered supplies and left. Simms is collaborating, there's a lot of equipment the Wanderer left us from what Simms said."

"I don't care about the equipment, Initiate Stanford. We have plenty of that and more, it's the man I care about. No sign of him since he left?"

Stanford took another look at the note given to her. "There was a sighting of him going north and west from the inhabitants at Arefu. He didn't stop there though."

Elder Lyons nodded, then dismissed the Initiate, apologizing for losing his temper.

This was not the sort of news he had wanted to receive today, quite the opposite. The Wanderer leaving the wasteland without saying a word. It was unheard of, a body blow to everything they had built together.

There were larger concerns too. The Wanderer was revered by many of the people in New Washington, many of them having been helped personally by his altruistic-yet-gruff nature. He was a figurehead around which so much had been built. His loss would be terrifying.

Something had to be done, he decided. He would think of something swiftly. That had been his hallmark: swift decision making paired with swift action.

He made his way outside, to the courtyard. Sarah should be getting back soon, he thought. He was proud of her, in spite of everything. Something he couldn't say about all of the Brotherhood members who had made the journey east with him. The Outcasts would need to be crushed.

As he entered circular courtyard of the citadel, he spied Sarah near the doors, sweat and dust still caked on her face. She must have only just arrived recently with the Pride. Her blonde hair was matted in some places, and she looked as if she had moved quickly, quicker than usual.

Something was up, he could tell. A fatherly instinct told him as soon as he saw her. It was her eyes that gave it away. Sarah would never be a good liar, her eyes gave her away almost immediately.

Their eyes locked.

"Father! A word?" She blurted, removing her Power Armor and setting aside.

"Of course Star Paladin Lyons, what can I help you with?"

"… in private?"

His eyes narrowed. What could be so urgent? He simply nodded and motioned for her to follow him. Could she have news of the Wanderer? Those two had been unusually close, perhaps she knew of something he didn't.

They proceeded in silence to the command center, where Rothchild awaited them, poring over the digital map of the Wasteland.

"Elder, Sarah, always a pleasure to see the both of you." Rothchild said jovially, "When you have a chance, I have an idea for a new venture to the North West which might appeal to the both of you."

Lyons nodded, then looked at his daughter quizzically, asking without words if what she had to say was for Rothchild's ears as well. Sarah nodded slowly, then began speaking.

"I ran into Olin from the Outcast outpost in D.C last night."

Rothchild's head snapped around as he turned to face Sarah in shock, whereas Elder Lyons merely stood in silence, a million thoughts going through his brain at once.

"There's been a bit of a change in mentality amongst their ranks," she continued, "Olin was sent to propose a truce to me."

"A truce? There is no truce. They abandoned us Sarah, when we needed them most." Elder Lyons sputtered. Rothchild looked pensive as if he were considering the notion, further incensing the Elder.

"Sarah, they left us alone to fight the Super Mutants in D.C while they holed up in their old Fort out west gathering Plasma Rifles. They betrayed us! Why should we accept them now, when the fighting is over?"

Sarah hesitated, before answering: "Because this fight will destroy us Father. You know that. Casdin isn't some stupid Super Mutant. He knows our tactics, he knows our equipment, our weaknesses. The wasteland is finally starting to flourish, we can't let our pride get in the way."

"Absolutely not Sarah. The decision is made. There will be no truce. Not with Casdin." he snarled, surprising both Sarah and Rothchild. Such anger was out of character for the man, usually soft-spoken and pensive.

"Father… is this about Mother? After all this time?"

Elder Lyons froze as if slapped.

"Get out Sarah. Leave and don't bring this up again."

"But Father!"

"That's an order, Paladin!" he yelled.

Sarah clenched her teeth, then spun on her heel and made her way up the stairs back to the courtyard.

His face white as a sheet, Elder Lyons marched out of the command center towards his quarters, leaving Rothchild to ponder about what had just happened.


End file.
